


Keys to the Kingdom

by Missy



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Domestic Bliss, F/F, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Requited UST, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy and Rosa go undercover as a married couple to suss out a suburban Giggle Pig distributor.  Duck confit is not eaten,  Tiffany is listened to, and somebody may or may not get kissed by the time the week is up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys to the Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betweenthebliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/gifts).



It’s all Holt’s fault. 

He’s the one who offers them each the opportunity to continue to chase the Giggle case into the wilds of the burbs, where they could track an outbreak of the drug in a cul-de-sac. Rosa had to go; she was the head of the task force. Amy fought for her position on the team tooth and nail, until Holt was forced to assign her out of exhaustion after days of enthusiastic campaigning proved a distraction. 

No matter how they’d got there, both women had packed a rented town car with all the supplies they’d need for two months and prepared to put on a good show of being a happy queer couple for the neighbors. Amy was enthusiastic, as always. Rosa…Rosa had a large cup of coffee.

Amy decided right then and there she’d be the one doing the driving. “Okay,” she grinned, settling down behind the wheel. “Let’s get this undercover mission going!” She reached for the radio and cranked up the volume, plugged in a CD.

“No crappy pop music in my…” Rosa raised an eyebrow. “Is that Tiffany?”

Amy grinned. “It’s my summer jam mix tape, and it was made for practical, careful seat dancing.” She pulled the car into traffic. 

“Right. Safe fun,” Rosa said flatly, sucking on her coffee. “Sounds great.”

“That’s our watchword!” Amy said. Rosa’s silence made her nervous. “Rosa – you know we can’t blow the whole neighborhood up…”

“Relax, it’s cool,” Rosa said. Fifteen minutes later they found themselves in a busy but very verdant enclave in Ditmas Park. “I left my detonator in my other jacket.”

Rosa’s first words as Amy pulled the car into their temporary driveway were honest and succinct. As they entered through the kitchen door and took a good look around she said, “It’s like Tasha Tudor puked everywhere.”

“You know Tasha Tudor?” Amy burbled. Rosa rolled her eyes and the two women got to work putting up appearances.

“Yeah. Little old lady who lived in the woods, wrote about kids, liked to cook. My mom read me some of her books as a kid.” Rosa dug through the cardboard box she’d dragged with her and, using the shiny surface of the kitchen counter to adjust her makeup, switching from blood reds to neutral pinks, then tying her hair back into a bun. She packed away her leather jacket and donned a conservative pink jacket. She turned toward Amy. “Do I look Betty Crocker enough?”

That was when Amy reached a sudden, swift conclusion; Rosa looked good all right. She looked _great_. Why had she never noticed that before? Was it because she only liked her when she was dolled up like a Mary Kay saleswoman? Oh God, what sort of friend was she? Rosa’s reaction to her obvious angst was to frown…and sniff her own armpits. Amy gulped and averted her eyes, returning to the art of unpacking. “You look great,” she said, and meant it.

“Thanks,” she said, then dug out. “You stay here, I’m going to run around and try to make friends with our neighbors…” she pulled out a Tupperware box filled with what appeared to be brownies, then turned to Amy. “These yours?”

“For the sting,” she said. “We need to look as cozy as we can and I thought, what’s cozier than brownies, right?”

“When did you have time to make these?”

“I was so excited that I didn’t sleep last night,” Amy admitted. “This is going to be so great!”

Rosa sighed, backing out of the kitchen. “Right. Just stay away from the knives,” she said.

When Rosa came home later, she found Amy curled up on the couch, snoring quietly with a copy of Jane Eyre tented over her eyes. Rosa rolled her eyes and tucked her friend in before sacking out in the bedroom. 

*** 

The neighborhood was somehow simultaneously very tony and very welcoming. Amy’s cover identity was Jane Player, a kindergarten teacher, and Rosa was Sarah Ripley, a personal trainer. Amy found herself getting used to the process of buying cheese and wine every week, of joining community activities and organizing bake sales. She spent an entire Thursday learning how to make the richest carrot cake possible and, after a few failures, actually managed to produce something that couldn’t double as ipecac. 

Rosa said it was good. Sort of. 

Amy found herself depending on Rosa’s opinion of her even more than she normally would as time went on. Rosa seemed not to change much at all – but that was Rosa. Though Amy did detect little signs that she was warming to her – lingering brushes of fingertips against backs and almost-smiles. They poured over their evidence at night and soon targeted the likely source of the neighborhood’s Giggle Pig outbreak; a modest couple who looked for all the world like librarians, the Planchettes. 

They had two children who seemed to know everyone on the block – and also a nice, big basement with good ventilation that was perfect for storing things like Giggle Pig. 

Rosa came up with a plan; they’ll throw a dinner party, convince the Planchettes to take them back to their house, then one of them will investigate the basement, take pictures, and get evidence enough for a warrant. Amy liked that idea, mostly because it meant she could get rid of the duck confit that had been loitering untouched in the fridge for weeks. 

*** 

Rosa did the inviting, Amy did the entertaining. Somehow she managed to whip up stories about her clients and Amy spun anecdotes about her classes (poor little Drake Northpole had no idea how to tie his shoes and it was really getting him down you know). Eventually the crowd thinned out, and it was just the two of them and the Planchettes. Rosa kept passing them glasses of champagne, and they kept yawning and checking their watches. Amy finally spoke up, asked if they felt like heading back to the Planchettes’ place to keep the party rocking. 

As if the yawn wasn’t enough of a tip-off, Mr. Planchette gave her a weak grin. “I think our babysitter wouldn’t be too opposed to that, but we’d better make it a quick one,.”

Amy and Rosa faked a laugh and trundled the still-uneaten confit across the street to the Planchette’s moderately-sized ranch house.

They dismissed the sitter as a group (Amy thinks she told her to stand down at some point.), then cracked open more champagne. Amy excused herself to go to the bathroom, and Missus Planchette said she had to go freshen her champagne. 

Amy made it to the basement. She clicked off several pictures before a sudden, sharp blow to the back of her head sent her face-first to the floor and into the arms of blackness.

*** 

“AMY! Amy, wake up!”

Rosa – it had to be Rosa – was shaking her. “Huh?” she managed. Amy’s vision swam back into proper focus and hovering over her was Rosa, who would likely deny for the rest of her life that she had tears in her eyes.

Rosa swallowed thickly, trying to re-arrange her features into a tough mask. “Hey. You okay?”

“My head hurts,” Amy said. “But I’m fine…oh God, what about the Planchettes?”

“They’re under arrest – I called for backup. They tried to kill me with a kitchen knife.” She rolled her eyes. “Couple of babies.” Then she shouted. “WE NEED MEDICS DOWN HERE!”

Rosa grabbed the phone from where Amy had dropped it and started shuffling through the pictures inside. “You’re yelling a lot for somebody who can’t stand me.” Amy added. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

Rosa glared, then blew a long, angry breath out. “Ugh, okay. I love you. Maybe,” she said. “Now sit still.”

Amy decided that the whole stakeout had been worthwhile – even the concussion she’d recieved. She beamed, and placed her palms on both of Rosa’s shoulders. 

*** 

A week later they came back to the house to gather their belongings. They met in Rosa’s car and divvied up the supplies left in the house.

“Ready to go?” Rosa asked as Amy crammed the last flowered tchotchkes into the back of her car.

“Yep!” Amy said. “And now I’m tuckin’ on my suuunglasses, putting on my suuunscreen!” She grinned. “And you’re checkin’ the driver’s side window and there’s somebody yelling in the middle of the ohcrap we forgot the confit!”

Amy tossed Rosa a hopeful look as the other woman sat, her features fixed into a glare. “No pets,” she said.

“Okay, but Christmases at your mom’s house and driver picks the music,” she said, and flicked it onto a classical station. Amy ejected her mix tape from the car – where it had sat for weeks – and Strauss filled the car. Amy frowned.

“You like classical music?”

“Helps me relax,” Rosa glowered. Then she leaned to the right and slapped a kiss on Amy’s cheek . “We’ll make out later.”

Amy sat up, happy, prim and totally relaxed for the first time in weeks as Rosa pointed the car toward Brooklyn.

**Author's Note:**

> The second you mentioned 'UST' in your letter, I thought 'confined space plus Undercovered as Married Tropes = slow-burn longing!' I wanted to be sure to insert a good dose of humor, too. I really hope you love it!


End file.
